


chasing dreams as we're waking

by escherzo



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Asexual Character, Beholding, Fluff, M/M, TMA159 Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-27
Updated: 2019-10-27
Packaged: 2021-01-04 15:10:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,164
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21199709
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/escherzo/pseuds/escherzo
Summary: “What do you need?” Jon asks, letting the compulsion wind around his words, but his voice stays soft, gentle. There is no threat behind it. Not for Martin.“I—this is so stupid, I'm sorry, I know you don't do things like this, but I just—want to know you.”





	chasing dreams as we're waking

**Author's Note:**

> sometimes when the main character is ace you need to make them your own flavor of ace (ft. some dom tendencies martin)
> 
> also brought to you by my overwhelming feelings about 159 
> 
> title from 'world of trouble' by vian izak

“I know the way,” Jon says.

He can feel the warmth of Martin's hand in his, his pulse weak and fluttering but _real_, and Jon leads them through the hum of static, the choking grey nothing of fog that stretches in every direction. Where they walk, the fog moves and shifts, parting, and Jon closes his eyes and walks until the static reshapes into the soft hum of electricity. The world is bright behind his eyelids, and when he opens them again, he's back in his office.

It's quiet and still outside. No sounds of not-Sasha, or Trevor and Julia, or even Elias. No gunshots. For now, they are alone. Well. Not alone.

Jon turns to look at Martin, and it is the least alone he's ever felt.

“We made it,” Martin says, soft and disbelieving, and when his legs collapse out from under him and he sits down hard onto the floor, Jon settles himself down beside him.

“I told you,” Jon says. “I knew the way.”

He can see the question in Martin's eyes and nods, wrapping an arm around Martin's middle and pulling him close, the solid, real warmth of him chasing away the last lingering chill of the fog. Martin rests his head on Jon's shoulder and just breathes for a long while.

“You got me out,” Martin murmurs into the silence. “I thought I was going to be there forever. I almost wanted to be. It was easier there.” _I loved you, and I didn't have to think about that there,_ he doesn't say, and Jon knows.

“I needed you,” Jon says. “I—Elias told me that going willingly into the Lonely was suicide. And I didn't even hesitate. I didn't know until then that I'd be capable of it. But it was _you_.”

“Jon,” Martin says, barely a whisper.

“It was you,” Jon repeats, and they lapse into silence again.

*

“Is everyone else alright?” Martin asks, later. They're still both on the floor, and his pulse is starting to settle again. Starting to strengthen. His shirt is damp from the fog, and there is a wild piece of hair sticking straight up on the back of his head. He hasn't shaved properly in several days.

He's a mess. Jon has never seen anything quite so wonderful.

“Helen ate Trevor Herbert,” Jon says, and then blinks at himself. “Daisy wasn't happy about it, but she has her own hunt to finish. I think--” He reaches the end of his knowing, and sighs. “I think she'll be alright. I think Basira can bring her back.”

Martin sighs. “I want to care about that,” he says. “About them. I think... I think that might take a little while to come back.”

“That's alright,” Jon says, leaning his head against Martin's. “Take your time.”

“It doesn't feel quite real yet, you know,” Martin says. “Part of me is convinced that I'll blink and you'll have been a dream. Just another way for Peter to twist the knife; give me you and then take you away from me again.” His voice has an odd quality to it. Distant, floating, like he's half-convinced he's telling this to an empty room.

“Peter won't be doing anything to you,” Jon says, and it comes out harsh, half a growl. A tinge of the power that consumed Peter entirely.

“You killed him,” Martin says, half a question.

“Yes,” Jon says.

Martin is silent for a long moment. “Thank you,” he says finally.

He lifts his head and shifts to face Jon, and Jon murmurs, even before he leans in, “You're going to kiss me.”

Martin stops, startled. “Uh. Is that okay?”

Jon takes Martin's face in both hands, cradling him. “Yes, Martin.”

The kiss tastes of nothing, but it's so warm that it makes Jon's chest hurt, and he follows Martin's lead and lets himself be lost to it.

“You're real,” Martin says, voice shaky and eyes watering as he breaks the kiss. “You're real. I want--” He can't finish. He meets Jon's gaze and there is no static of the Lonely in his eyes, but he can't get the words out.

“Would it be easier if I—asked you?” Jon asks, and Martin's laugh sounds rusty with disuse, half a sob.

“Yeah,” he says, and reaches up to wipe a tear from the corner of his eye, still smiling. He hasn't stopped smiling since he Saw Jon for the first time, there in the Lonely. His cheeks are faintly flushed.

“What do you need?” Jon asks, letting the compulsion wind around his words, but his voice stays soft, gentle. There is no threat behind it. Not for Martin.

“I—this is so stupid, I'm sorry, I know you don't do things like this, but I just—want to know you.”

“Things like this?” Jon asks, wiping away another tear that slides down Martin's cheek, fingers smoothing down the side of his face, touching the faint coarse hairs at the side of his lip, under his chin. The little pieces Martin doesn't concern himself with when the world isn't watching.

“You don't have _sex_,” Martin blurts, and his face goes redder as soon as it slips out. “Sorry.”

“I have,” Jon says, unconcerned. “If you were never hungry, would you still eat?”

“If this is a comment on my weight, Jon, that's not cool.”

“No no,” Jon says, hands flailing a bit. Sometimes that happens, when anxiety gets the better of him. “It's, um. An analogy about—desire. That's all. If you didn't feel the drive to eat, would you?”

Martin huffs out a laugh. “I don't know. Maybe? Maybe if it was something I really liked, or if it was a special occasion and it would be rude not to, or--_oh_.” There's a glint of understanding in his eyes, and Jon feels known in a way that both comforts him and makes something twist in the pit of his stomach.

Here he is, being the one _seen_ for once. It's almost funny.

“_Do_ you still eat?” Martin asks as Jon sits back to tug his sweater up and over his head, leaving his chest bare. His eyes are wide. “Sorry, that was rude. I'm not very—good at people anymore.”

“You know,” Jon says, “I'm not sure. Sometimes it's hard to pay attention to things like that.”

“What, you don't Know?”

“It's not something I can direct at myself, I think,” Jon says, and he slowly, methodically unbuttons the first button of Martin's shirt, and then the second. He drinks it all in: the rapid rise and fall of Martin's chest, the way his hands come up to wrap around Jon's own—not stopping him, just following his movements, the way his mouth hangs faintly open. He wants to know Martin, too, a familiar hunger that isn't quite desire. They've wasted so much time.

“Are you sure?” Martin asks, as the last button of his shirt comes free and Jon pushes it away. “God, Jon, please be sure.”

“I'm sure,” Jon says, and on his desk, a tape recorder clicks on.

*

Jon learns the shape of Martin, slow and methodical, the way he shudders when Jon bites his neck, the bitten-off whimper as Jon twists a nipple, the way his hands open and close into fists when Jon kisses the curve of his stomach, like he's fighting the urge to hide himself. Jon tastes the heat of his skin, feels his pulse under his lips, traces the years of scars the Archives have left upon him. Learns him. Knows him.

“This is real,” he tells Martin, and takes Martin into his mouth. Martin is loud, then, biting his lip to try and stifle it and failing, his hips pushing up into Jon's mouth in abortive twitches as he squirms. Jon watches him, staring up into his flushed face as it twists in pleasure so sharp it almost hurts, and it feels right to move Martin's hands to his head, to let Martin take hold of him and direct him how he needs.

Martin has always been into the idea of being a little mean, in moments like these, but so guilty at the thought he's never acted on it. Jon knows this. He doesn't mind.

“Jon,” Martin breathes, and when their eyes meet again Jon can see that Martin understands.

Martin's fingers twist into his hair, light at first and then harder when he sees Jon's hips push forward against the floor. There are secrets in this that Martin is giving freely to Jon, desires he wouldn't otherwise admit to, and Jon can feel the contentment of being fed sink into his bones. He wants to know everything about Martin.

Martin grips him tighter, hard enough to hurt, and pushes Jon's head down all the way into his lap, and as he comes Jon realizes all at once as he swallows Martin down that he's only been breathing out of habit, that he no longer needs to do it. Above him, Martin moans, high and shaky, shuddering through the aftershocks, and Jon rides out the slowing movements of his hips.

“Oh my god,” Martin says, letting go all at once and looking down at Jon with something like fear in his eyes. “I'm so sorry.”

“Don't be,” Jon says, voice a rasp, and he coughs to clear his throat. “I knew what you wanted.”

“I know, just--” Martin reaches for Jon again and pulls him into a kiss, messy and with the lingering taste of Martin between them. “Thank you, I never, I. What do _you_ need?”

Jon knows the answer; it takes him a moment to accept it within himself.

“Will you let me—ask?”

Martin closes his eyes for a moment and then nods. He strokes down the length of Jon's bare back, fingers catching on divots and scars, the remnants of every fear that has left its mark on Jon.

“When did you start thinking about me like this?” Jon asks, and Martin shudders as the compulsion washes over him.

“Ages ago. When we first met, really. I'd come in and bring you a cup of tea and I'd be thinking about bending you over your desk as you narrated the whole thing. I'd make you beg and, and call you a good boy when you obeyed me and when you'd order me about you'd be thinking about later, when you'd be doing as _I_ said.” Martin's face is so red as he speaks, and Jon lets it wash over him, pushing up into the touch as Martin wraps a hand around him.

“Did you want to hurt me?” Jon asks, because Martin gave him permission and this, this is a secret Martin wouldn't share otherwise. He wants to know it. Wants to take it in and make it a part of himself.

“Only if you wanted me to, but I really, I shouldn't like that kind of thing at all, should I, it's not _nice_, but I just wanted to leave a _mark_. I wanted you to think about me when it hurt.”

His hand moves faster, and Jon's hips rock with it, chasing the twin pleasures of knowing and this, a simpler, more animal need. He's close; he can feel it.

“Martin. Do you still?”

“_Yes_,” Martin says, like it's been wrenched out of him.

“Then _do it_,” Jon says, power arcing through the words, and Martin groans and leans in, biting down so hard at the crook of Jon's neck it feels like he might have broken the skin, and Jon comes, lost to pain and sensation and the power of seeing Martin like this, all pretensions gone.

*

Martin pulls him into a hug, after. “Thank you,” he says, soft. “Also oh my god, I think I made you bleed a little.”

“I've had worse,” Jon says, and he finds that he's smiling.

“I mean, yes, but--” Martin goes to speak again and Jon shushes him, strokes through his hair over and over until they both feel settled.

They're a mess. They're still on the _floor_, and Jon is not quite young enough to be able to do that forever. But for now, Martin is warm and so very alive in his arms, and all he can hear is the steady sound of Martin's breathing and the faint click as the tape recorder turns off again.

“Jon, are you—why aren't you breathing?” Martin asks, after a moment.

“Oh. I forgot,” Jon says, and Martin's nervous giggle turns into full-blown laughter when he sees how sheepish Jon's face looks at the whole thing.

“You _forgot_,” Martin says and laughs harder, tears beading at the corners of his eyes. “What are we going to do with you?”

“It's good to hear you laugh,” Jon says, and there's a moment of stillness, of the two of them just looking at each other, before he pulls Martin into another kiss. “It's been a while.”

“Yeah,” Martin says, still smiling. “Yeah, it has.”


End file.
